


Tuesday at the Gerys-Da Esoterica

by lovebeyondmeasure



Series: The Gerys-Da Esoterica Chronicles [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Beta Read, Gen, Mild Matthew Cunliffe Bashing, Not Britpicked, This Is Not A Harry Potter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: In a magical Britain not too very different from our own, a shopowner and his familiar have an eventful day, involving their prettiest customer, a misleading shipping crate, and more frogs than they were really planning on.





	Tuesday at the Gerys-Da Esoterica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindmea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmea/gifts).



> Based on a prompt from my darling lindmea, who provided wonderful feedback, and with the greatest of thanks as always to my beta, bethanyactually. These ladies make my fic happen and I adore them. 
> 
> This is magical AU that has nothing to do with Harry Potter, which I know is unheard of, but stick with me, I promise it's a real fun time. Please enjoy!
> 
> [Shanker, if you're wondering.](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nydEOKaaVfU/W2_RDdPIw-I/AAAAAAAAC3M/41eHcFdGU3wAd6TjlR3-0ip9OigdIkwyACL0BGAYYCw/h414/2018-08-11.jpg)

Cormoran looked at the sign above his shop and sighed. The paint had peeled in the worst possible way, turning “Gerys-Da Esoterica” into “Ge ys a E ot ica” which attracted, and subsequently disappointed, a particular sort of clientele. He’d had two customers in the past week who had inquired as to the quality of the erotica, and had not purchased any magical supplies whatsoever.

He stubbed out his cigarette and unlocked the door, letting the scent of parchment, herbs and dust wash over him. The shop had smelled this way for decades, and if he wasn’t careful, it would be turned into another one of those poncy coffee shops with the self-stirring cups and pretentious names for sizes. He flipped the sign on the door to “open” and cantripped the lights on.

“Shanker, we’re open!” he called out. “See if you can’t rummage up some dignity, would you?”

“Fuck off,” came the muffled reply. “I’m a cat, I have more dignity in a single fuckin’ whisker-”

“Sod off,” Cormoran said, not without affection. Shanker leapt up to bump his soft orange head against Cormoran’s hand in greeting. “If I put out a bowl of wet food, would you deign to stay up front and help any customers who come in?”

“If you put out something other than that shit tuna, I’ll even tell them we don’t sell any porn,” Shanker said, leaping gracefully from the counter to the floor to go bask in the morning sun. 

Cormoran laughed. “Get me some customers, I might be able to afford salmon again!”

“I’d prefer beef,” Shanker groused. “You cheap bastard.”

Cormoran went about his routine, opening and counting up the till, unlocking the cabinets. He set out Shanker’s dish and refreshed his water, as well; the damn cat could and did drink from the taps, but he tried to be courteous to an old friend. Even if the old friend was a tiny git with claws. 

He walked a circuit, inspecting the goods. Some of the herbs needed to be cycled back to the greenhouse room; fresh was usually best for spellwork and potions, but the plants didn’t thrive in the dry air of the shop. Picking up a sad-looking mugwort sprout, he felt his leg twinge. “Fuck off, stump,” he muttered to it crossly. He ought to make a fresh poultice for it. He grabbed a pot of angelica in his other hand and took them to the back.

There was something soothing about the greenhouse room. Cormoran wouldn’t say he was an earthwitch, by any means, but tending and growing were their own rewards. In a life that had been indelibly marked by battle magic, it was a small pleasure to nurture life. Not that he would admit it out loud, of course.

From the front, there was a feline yowl. “It’s the pretty one!” Shanker yelled, and Cormoran spared a hope that their customer hadn’t heard that remark as he wiped his hands and headed back to the counter.

“Hello again,” said The Pretty One, smiling. “How are you today?”

Shanker had leapt back up on a shelf, presenting himself to be petted. “Good,” he rumbled through his purr. “Lil’ to the left- yeah, there, mmmm…”

Cormoran took a moment to gather himself. “How can we help you today?”

“Good morning, Mr. Strike,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been sent to check on that shipment again.”

He plastered on a smile. It wasn’t her fault that her employer was the most impatient and finicky customer the shop had, and she was in fact an enormous improvement over the man coming in himself.

“It’s due today,” he said, which they both knew. “If Mr. Cunliffe would like, I can ring him when it comes in.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” The Pretty One said. “I have some other errands to run, I can stop back in later. Would you happen to know what time the shipment is expected in?”

“Normally comes between ‘leven and one,” the traitor cat purred. “You wouldn’t happen to be- mrrr- stopping by a butcher or a market of any kind?”

“I do pass one,” she smiled at Shanker. “Are you implying you’d like me to pick you up a treat?”

If Cormoran had referred to giving Shanker a “treat” the cat would have sworn a blue streak and glared at him from various improbable perches. For The Pretty One, he mrowed a yes. 

“The butcher shop has packages of offal they sell, if that’s to your liking, Mr. Shanker?”

The awful thing purred louder, clearly enjoying the thorough scratching he was being given. 

“I’ll be back around one o’clock, then. Have a good one, Mr. Strike, Mr. Shanker!” She gave the cat one last pat, smiled at them both, and exited. 

“I love her,” the cat sighed. 

“I can’t believe you asked a customer to bring your food,” Cormoran said. “She’ll think I don’t feed you.”

“You don’t!” Shanker spat. “That tuna is nasty. I want  _ beef.” _

“And once we have the till sorted out-”

“You’ll pay the bills and restock the raw wandwood and then you’ll buy me canned tuna  _ again _ and I WANT BEEF!” Shanker hissed at him, tail straight as a wand, and stalked off into the shadows. Cormoran rubbed his forehead. Having a childhood friend as a familiar was not what he would have chosen, if anything had been up to him. 

“Don’t hiss at the customers, please,” he called to the empty shop, knowing Shanker was listening. Silence was his response. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just because I’m trying to keep this fucking shop open, blame me for no money. It’s the fucking internet, is the problem, everyone buying their supplies from random strangers with  _ no _ quality control, just doing magic helter-skelter, and no way to know what  _ kind _ of bone powder you’re adding, like fucking  _ idiots…” _

He talked to the plants as he pruned and watered them, partially because it really did encourage better growth and strengthened their potency, and partially because he was really quite irritated about the internet. People were buying magical supplies from  _ non-magical suppliers, _ even, as though any random feathers could  _ ever  _ have the same effects as hand-raised and correctly-harvested feathers. How could you even know for sure if it was a primary? It  _ mattered, _ dammit, every detail matters in magic!

A few customers came through, regulars who’d been coming for longer than Cormoran had owned the shop, some longer than he’d even been alive. They knew what they needed, and how much, and didn’t quibble over prices. Cormoran weighed the gold in his hand as he exchanged it for a bundle of rowan switches and a half-block of beeswax. That would cover today’s wages, at least. 

Cormoran was just sitting down to eat his rather pathetic sandwich when the back bell rang. “Shanker, mind the front!” he called, hoping the useless git wasn’t asleep in a cabinet, and went to take the shipment.

“Order for Jerry’s Da Es- Esso- Esotenka?” the pale, limp young man said, not looking up from his clipboard.

“Close enough,” he answered. “You’re not the usual boy.”

“Nah, Spanner’s out sick,” the kid said. “Sign ‘ere.”

Cormoran took the clipboard, meaning to check it over before signing, as he usually did. The skinny kid didn’t relinquish his grip, though, forcing Strike to decide if he wanted to force the issue. The siren song of his left-behind sandwich convinced him to just scrawl his name and accept the three crates, which the kid wheeled awkwardly into his back room before scrambling off to continue his route. 

“He’s no Spanner,” Cormoran grumbled. Spanner was willing to shoot the shit, and usually stayed long enough to help Cormoran get the boxes where he wanted them. It was hard enough moving crates alone when you had two legs, which he didn’t. This substitute was decidedly unsatisfactory in that regard.

He left the crates and ate his lunch, wolfing down the sandwich and a packet of crisps before going out for a smoke break. He added a pinch of damiana to his cig before lighting it, mostly for the energy boost, and exhaled his smoke up into the sky. 

It was fucking exhausting, running this shop. He really ought to hire another employee; it was unforgiving, doing it all himself. Well, of course he had Shanker.  _ But a cat can’t help with the books, or measuring ingredients, or ring at the register, _ he reminded himself, inhaling deeply.  _ On the other hand, his wages’re certainly cheap. _

But if he wanted Gerys-Da to stay open, he really needed to increase his sales, and having another person to help would go a long way to his efficiency. Perhaps what he really needed to do was establish an online presence beyond a homepage with hours and a contact email and phone number, though he hated to even think it. He shook his head. Something had to change, anyway. He was barely breaking even as it was.

A glance at his battered wristwatch told him it was half-past noon, and he swore. The Pretty One would be back for Mr. Cunliffe’s shipment soon, and it was sitting in its shipping crate still. He stamped out his cig and went inside.

Hoisting what looked to be the correct crate onto the table behind the counter, Cormoran hoped he wouldn’t be caught looking like an unprepared fool. And he ought to stop calling her The Pretty One, but it’s what Shanker called her, and it had stuck. She knew their names, but he’d never had the chance to learn hers. He thought it might be Sandra, but it never seemed to be the right moment to ask. 

He traced the unlocking sigil onto the crate’s label, wondering why it looked different from the last shipment from Anura’s Bounty, when he heard a croak. 

From within the box. 

Entirely too late, he realized why the crate looked different: it was a stasis crate for  _ live creatures. _

“Oh, bollocks-”

He had broken the seal, and the lid opened automatically to reveal at least 25 live frogs of various species, all no longer contained by stasis. He’d used a general unlocking sigil that ended all contained spells, instead of the variation that would only end the one he’d been touching. All of this, of course, occurred to him as the first four frogs to shake off the spell leapt free of the crate and began to disappear. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he began scrawling a sigil, but the frogs were all waking up now, and there was no  _ time- _ he slid the lid shut just as more frogs leapt free, containing hopefully most of them. He grabbed the first heavy thing that came to hand- a sack of unsorted crystals- and dropped it atop the lid.

“Oy, Bunsen, what the bloody hell is this?” Shanker called. “A fucking great frog just hopped by! And there’s another-”

“Catch it!” he yelled back. “Anura’s sent a crate of live ones!”

“You didn’t order live ones!” Shanker meowed, sounding greatly amused.

“I bloody well know that, now help me catch them!”

Cormoran was looking about frantically for his wand. Normally he didn’t do very much spellwork in the shop, since he tried not to contaminate the stock with his own magical residue, but this situation called for it. Was it here? Where the hell was it?

“I got one!” Shanker called, sounding pleased with himself. “What should I do with it?”

“Bring it back here!” 

“What if it’s poison or somethin’?”

“Then I’ll dose you, you git!”

Shanker carried the frog in with his head held high, depositing it on the floor with the air of a game hunter. 

“In the box,” Cormoran said, harried now. The frogs had scattered and he didn’t have his wand, or any wand. Fuck it, he’d just use raw wandwood, better than nothing and he could shape it later-

“I don’t have  _ hands, _ ” Shanker said. 

“Right, fuck.” Cormoran carefully opened the box, prepared to catch any frogs who tried to make a leap for it. Shanker deposited his catch in the box with an expressive headshake, and Cormoran slammed the lid back on. 

“That tasted fuckin’ awful,” Shanker said.

“There’s at least seven more out there,” he told the cat. “Maybe more.”

“Bet I catch more’n you!” his wretched familiar said, racing off around the counter. Cormoran grabbed his makeshift wand, mentally running through what would work best to summon them back. He didn’t know exactly what types they were, so individual summoning wouldn’t help- summoning all frogs in the radius might well summon all frog  _ parts, _ and he knew he had powdered frogskin out, which would be horrible- fuck, fuck-

The bell over the door jingled as he was halfway into a cobbled-together variation on a subpoena charm he’d learned in the Forces, hoping it would focus on live frogs.

“Hello, what-”

“Got ‘nother!” Shanker said, carrying a huge toad in his mouth. “Quick!”

Cormoran dismissed the charm hurriedly and took the toad, which seemed half-stunned, to slip back into the box. “With you in a minute!” he called, knowing he sounded panicked, and managed to lose two more frogs as he put the toad in the crate. “Fuck!”

“What on earth is going on?” The Pretty One said, coming up to the counter. “Are you alright?”

Cormoran knew he was wide-eyed and red-faced, and thought he might have lost a button on his shirt. 

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s a bit mad in here-”

“They shipped us live ones!” Shanker cried, back on the hunt. His voice came from atop a set of shelves, although how a frog would have got up there Cormoran wouldn’t know. 

“Live what?” she asked, then gasped. “Oh! Live frogs!”

Another large one hopped by, as rapidly as it could, clearly as overwhelmed as Cormoran felt. She jumped back as it disappeared beneath a case of bones. 

“Gimme a mo, I just need to sort out-” he began to say. This was rapidly rising up his list of Very Bad Days. 

“What a mess!” she said, clutching her chest. She dropped her armful of bags, then began to make rapid hand gestures, as though she was casting a cantrip, but why would she have a cantrip for catching frogs prepared? He hadn’t even known she was an independent magic worker herself, he’d thought she was an assistant. 

Flicking her fingers once, twice, again, and then twisting her arms open with a snap, she flung out a sort of magical net over the room. Cormoran watched in mute astonishment as she began hauling it back in towards herself, biting her lip in concentration. 

“That was sticky and I didn’t like it a bloody jot!” Shanker meowed, sounding put out. “Bunsen, what’d you do?”

“Nothing!” he called back, watching as the net coalesced in around her, various types of frog caught immobile in it. He counted five, six- eight- 

“Unless any got outside, that should be all of them,” she said, clutching her fists tight to keep the net from disintegrating. 

Cormoran turned and fumbled with the box, the sigil to place stasis over small animals finally resurfacing from the depths of his memory. He traced it, large and firm, over the top of the box, before opening it cautiously. 

“You should be able to pull them out,” she said, “but I don’t know if the immobilization will last once they’re removed, so be careful.”

He nodded, starting with a small toad. It did, indeed, start to move as soon as it was free of her net, so he clamped his hands around it and got it in the box as fast as he could.

“Could you bring the box here?” she asked. “Only I don’t know how much longer I can hold them all.”

“Sorry, right,” he said, hauling the crate over to the counter and scooping the frogs in with all haste. Once the last one was in his hands, she released the net, which crumbled away into the familiar ashy magical residue. 

They stood there in silence for a moment, both breathing heavily. Shanker slunk out from behind a display case, looking extra ruffled. 

“The fuck was that?”

“The net?” she replied. “It’s a- a variation on a fishing spell.”

Shanker twined himself around her ankles quickly, purring his approval. “Neat bit of work. Where’s your wand?”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t- I don’t have one.”

“You did that wandless?” Shanker sounded as surprised and impressed as Cormoran felt. What on earth was a magic-user with skill like that doing working as an assistant?

“It’s not that remarkable,” she demurred, but it didn’t sound like false modesty, it sounded as though she’d been convinced her skills weren’t very strong. “I take it that was supposed to be the shipment I came to pick up?”

Cormoran knew a conversational redirection when he heard it, but allowed it for the moment. “I thought it was, seeing as how it’s got Anura’s Bounty printed all over it and your supplies were what I ordered, but let’s see about that.”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “I doubt Matthew will be pleased to get a box of live frogs instead of hearts and livers and what-all.”

Cormoran was unable to suppress a snort at the mental image of the overly image-conscious magician running about after the frogs. “No doubt he wouldn’t,” he said, pulling out the packing slip. “Oh, bugger them,” he swore. “It’s a complementary set called Anura’s Assortment to, quote, thank you for being such a valued client, unquote. What the fuck type of gift is that?”

“They sent you an unsolicited box of  _ live frogs _ as a  _ thank you present?” _ she said, shocked, then began to laugh.

Cormoran and Shanker looked at each other, and slowly they too dissolved into laughter. 

“What did they think you would do with them?” she asked, wiping her eyes. “I mean, honestly?”

“Sell them, I suppose,” Cormoran said, leaning against the worktable. “Let me see if your shipment is in one of the other crates.”

“Thank you,” she said, composing herself. 

Slipping into the back room, Cormoran saw that one of the other boxes was, in fact, also from Anura’s Bounty, and the packing slip indicated it was the one he had wanted. Out in the front of the shop, he could hear Shanker chatting with her- really, he should ask her name- and hoped the cat was finding out what the hell was going on.

She had managed that spell with no wand, off the cuff, and there had been real grace and precision to her hand motions. That was no small feat; he himself usually replied on tried-and-true structured spellwork, the kind you measured and prepared and made sure to pronounce correctly. She was confident enough with magic to work without any of that, and was somehow employed by a jumped-up magician who thought he was going to reinvent the wand. It didn’t add up.

He heaved the correct crate out to the counter. “Here it is, then,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Strike,” she said, smiling at him. 

“After that, you don’t have to call me Mister anything,” he said, trying for a casually friendly tone.

“Well, I don’t know your first name,” she said, “but I can call you Strike if you’d like.”

“Please,” he said. “Most people do.”

“No they don’t,” Shanker said. “You have the most nicknames of anyone I know.”

“Because your circle of acquaintances is so very wide,” he retorted. 

Shanker sniffed, twitching his whiskers. “You don’t know what I do at night.” 

She laughed. “I don’t think anyone calls me anything but Robin,” she said, and ah, her name wasn’t Sandra at all. Cormoran was very glad he hadn’t trusted that instinct.

“Well, Robin, my first name is Cormoran, but like I said, most people don’t call me that,” he said.

“That’s a wonderful name!  _ Cormoran _ . Sounds properly magical, not like mine,” she replied, and he knew he liked her, but hadn’t realized how much until he heard his name from her lips. 

“It’s mythological,” he said, his mouth running away with him. “A Cornish giant.”

“I think it’s lovely. It suits you,” she said, nodding. 

“You’re just saying that because I’m so big,” he joked. 

She smiled, but eyed him seriously. “Sure, but it’s got gravitas. Cor-mor-an. Got a good solid ring to it.”

“Robin’s a very nice name,” he said, not sure what else to say. 

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “It’s not very magical, but it serves.”

“Who needs a magical name when you have magic chops like yours, though?” he said, neatly bringing the conversation back around to what he wanted to know. “That was some  _ very _ impressive spellwork you did, right on the spot like that. What kind of training do you have?”

“Oh,” she said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “My mum’s a stitchwitch, da’s family’s all beastmasters, so I learned from them, and two of my brothers are-”

“But you’ve obviously got some real training,” he interrupted.

“Well, I went to uni for spellbuilding,” she said, as though it were an admission. “But I- I left before I could finish.”

Spellbuilding! That wasn’t for the faint of heart, which this Robin clearly wasn’t. That took deep and comprehensive knowledge of magic, how it worked, how elements of spells interacted--it was impressive, hardly something to be guilty about.

“I didn’t finish uni either,” he said, surprising himself. He didn’t share personal details with customers. Well, usually. 

“Anyway, now I work with Matthew on his research,” she said, clearly jumping over several other chapters to the present. “Which is quite rewarding, really.”

“I hope he’s putting you to good use,” Cormoran said, taking a guess that he wasn’t. “Someone with experience of spellbuilding at the uni level would be an asset to any magical workroom.”

“Oh,” Robin said. “Of course, yeah.”

Cormoran nodded, letting the silence nudge her into admitting what he’d already guessed.

“I mean,” she said. “I mostly work on the research part of things. But it’s important work, and I enjoy doing it.” She said this defensively, as though he would criticize it. He restrained the urge.

“Of course it is. I just thought that, you know, someone who can modify and execute spells like that would be working on their own research as well.”

Robin chewed this over as he began the process of ringing her out. Shanker had disappeared, which was surprising. Normally he felt the need to stick his little pink nose into everything in the shop. 

“Of course I’d like to do my own work as well,” she said. “But, well, Matthew’s been working on his theories since sixth form, and no one understands it all better than I do.”

Suddenly, several disparate pieces of information slotted together in Cormoran’s brain. Robin was the “lovely wife-to-be” that the irritating Mr. Cunliffe had bragged on in previous visits to the shop. She was beautiful, blonde, smart, and a good assistant, dedicated to him and his work. He didn’t see a ring on her hand, though, which gave him some hope for her. Anyway, it made sense now. He finished processing her payment. 

He couldn’t resist just one more question, though, before he gave her up as a lost cause.

“No one knows it better than you? Not even him?” Cormoran hit enter, printing her receipt. 

From the thoughtful look on Robin’s face, she was more than smart enough to grasp what he was asking her, and he hoped she was driven enough to take it to its logical conclusion. Anyone who chose to pursue spellbuilding was too smart to spend their life as an assistant to a middling researcher. 

“Thanks for all your help today, Robin,” he said as he cast a weight-lifting cantrip on the crate so she could get it home. “You’re a very impressive magician.”

“Thank you, Cormoran,” she said. “Oh! Before I go! Shanker, I got you something!”

That damn cat appeared immediately. “You didn’t have to,” he said, nosing about in the packages.

“Of course I did,” she said. “Here.”

She had indeed purchased a package of beef trimmings and organ meat from the butcher. 

Shanker purred loudly, rubbing up against Robin’s arm. “You’re an angel, a beautiful angel,” the cat said. “Come work here. Never leave.”

She laughed. “I ought to be going,” she said, giving Shanker one last scratch. “Thanks for the offer, although I don’t know that you have hiring powers.” She looked at Cormoran, inviting him in on the joke.

“He’s actually technically the assistant manager,” Cormoran said. “But you can have his job, if you like.” He said it jokingly, but was in that moment struck by how much he absolutely meant it. 

“What, seriously?”

Cormoran nodded. “You’re clearly a very capable magician, you must know your way around magical components, and if you can manage Matthew Cunliffe and his workshop you can handle almost anything, I should think.”

Now Robin looked shocked.

“And you have hands, which is more than I can say,” Shanker sniggered. 

She nodded absently at that. “But I couldn’t leave Matthew,” she said, and Cormoran could have whooped; that meant she was actually considering the offer, which he hadn’t thought she’d do. “If I were to come work here, he’d have to hire an assistant, and I don’t know-”

She stopped at the look on Cormoran’s face. 

“Isn’t he paying you?” he asked, horrified. 

“I...” Robin shook her head minutely. 

“A research assistant of any caliber is worth good money, and he’s not paying you at  _ all?” _

“No… I mean, we live together, and have joint finances-”

“Do you have the means to live independently?” Cormoran asked, falling into his old interrogator’s tone that demanded answers. 

“Well, I’m quite happy with him-”

“But if something happened, and you wanted to leave him, could you? Not that something  _ will _ happen, but if it did.”

With a dawning look of revelation, she shook her head. “No, I’d have to- I’d have to go home. To my parents.”

He nodded, allowing Robin to fill in the silence with her own thoughts. He could almost see the rapid flicker of her brain processing, making conclusions, and railed again at the injustice of so quick a mind being chained up as an assistant forever. 

“Honestly, I’ve been looking for an assistant for the shop-”  _ for the past hour and a half- _ “and I’d hire you in a moment. If you reconsider, let me know.” He fumbled one of the store’s business cards out of its holder by the register and handed it to her. “I’d love to see more of your spellwork, and if you came to work here, you’d have time to work on your own research as well.”

“Please,” Shanker said, breaking his uncharacteristic silence once more. “You’re so much smarter and prettier than Bunsen here.”

She laughed, breaking the tension that had been growing. 

“Thanks for the offer, Cormoran, Shanker. I really ought to be going now, but I’ll see you soon, yeah? And-” she paused, then pocketed the card. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Cormoran said. “And thank you again for your help with the frogs.”

“Well, they were my fault, in a way,” she smiled. “So it was my pleasure.”

As she slipped out the door, Cormoran sighed.

“Honestly,” Shanker said, eyeing the package of meat she’d left for him, “I think the pleasure here was all mine. Break that open for me, would you, Bunsen, and let’s see what she got me.”

Pulling out his working knife, Cormoran wondered if Robin really would consider it. The smell of raw meat hit his nose, and he backed away, letting Shanker dart in to grab a piece of what looked like intestine.

“Think she’ll take it?” Shanker asked though the mouthful of offal. 

“I hope so,” Cormoran said. 

“What’ll you do with the live frogs?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Can I have this kind of thing every day?”

“Not on my budget. Stop talking with your mouth full, you heathen, where’s your manners?”

“Sod off, Bunsen.”

The shop was much quieter the rest of the day, except for one moment when a customer’s cell ringtone was a chorus of croaking frogs and Cormoran nearly had a heart attack. But then, shortly before close, the store phone rang. 

“Gerys-Da Esoterica, Strike speaking, how can I help you?”

“Cormoran? It’s Robin.”

“Robin, hi.”

“I wanted to- I’ll take the job.”

A sense of vicious satisfaction raced through him. “Really? That’s great! When can you start?”

She sounded as though she’d been crying, but also resolved. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

“No,” he said, not entirely surprised. “No, tomorrow’s great. We can sort out the paperwork and all later.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Cormoran replied. “You don’t know how pleased I am to have you.”

“Is that Robin?” Shanker asked, sidling up to the phone. Cormoran nodded, mouthing the news.

“Robin!” Shanker meowed. 

“Hello, Shanker,” she called out. “Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Great,” Cormoran said. “Meet me here at the shop at eight, is that alright?”

“That’s perfect,” she said. “I’ll- I’ll see you then. Ta.”

“Bye,” Cormoran said. 

Shanker flopped over beside the dish of meat Robin had gifted him, wriggling excitedly. “I love her,” he declared. “I’m going to be her familiar instead.”

“Sure you are,” Cormoran said, rolling his eyes. This was the greatest stroke of luck he’d had in a while. Someone of Robin’s caliber would be able to help with compounding tinctures and potions, would be able to strengthen his charms and cantrips, and he had high hopes about her bookkeeping abilities. Additionally, having a young and pretty face behind the counter would be a much better draw than his own battered mug. 

“I just realized,” he said out loud. 

“What?” Shanker asked, mouth full of what might be liver scraps. 

“I don’t know her last name.”

Shanker just laughed at him. 

**Author's Note:**

> [You can share this fic on tumblr!](http://lovebeyondmeasure.tumblr.com/post/176933057799/)
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> [And now with an amazing gifset by the very talented cormoranlystruck!](http://cormoranlystruck.tumblr.com/post/176985778792/)


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